by Gil McNeil
It’s another text from Ellen. Help. Now have 4569 stitches. And only meant to be a sleeve. E. x
I text her back while I get the iron out. Take back few rows and count. Will be fine. Remember to breathe. Gran off on cruise with Reg and needs cruise clothes. Am now in charge of whole school knitting project. Help. Where are you? x
The phone beeps again. At work, on at 6. Gran now getting more action than you!!
I text her back: **** off and plug the iron in. I’ve just started on a pair of jeans when the phone rings.
‘Aren’t you meant to be in make-up?’
‘Sorry?’
Bugger, I thought it was Ellen, but it’s Maxine.
‘We’re back, and she wants you round now.’
‘Right now?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t. I’ve got the boys with me.’
‘Hang on … Yes, I’m talking to her now … Yes, but she’s —’
Grace comes on the line. ‘Sorry about this, Jo, but can you come round, just for a minute? I need to show you, I’ve finished the little cardigan and it’s so sweet, but I need you to do the sewing-up thing.’
‘I’ve got the boys here.’
‘Well bring them too. They can have a swim – would they like that? It’s not too late, is it?’
‘They’d love it, only —’
‘Great. See you in ten minutes.’
The line goes dead.
Damn, I better get round there, particularly since I’ve just signed the letter Maxine sent, with the truly staggering rate of £400 a day for being the official Knitting Adviser to Ms Harrison, for a minimum of one a day a month, which is brilliant, obviously, but it does mean I can’t afford to say no.
I switch the iron off and start collecting up towels and swimming things while I drill the boys about Being Polite and not shouting, or running, or touching anything, and then I realise that I might have slightly overdone it because they’ve both gone rather quiet.
‘Put your shoes on, Archie, and then we’ll go. It’ll be fun, I promise. You can have a lovely swim; won’t that be great?’
‘And I don’t need my armbands now, Mum, remember?’
‘I know you don’t, Archie, but just for today could you wear them until we see how deep the water is?’
He tuts.
‘Please, Archie.’
‘Can we have chocolate on the way home?’
‘Yes.’
‘A proper big bar each?’
In other words no trying to palm them off with a packet of Maltesers to share.
‘Yes. Come on, Jack, get your coat on, love.’
I’m hyperventilating as I drive to the house, while Archie blows up his armbands on the back seat and then puts them on over his coat. I bet nobody else has ever arrived at Graceland with their armbands on over their anorak.
Grace is coming down the stairs when Maxine lets us in, and she’s looking very pregnant in the kind of white silky kaftan that nobody in their right mind would wear if they hadn’t just been on a three-week trip to the Bahamas. But of course she looks divine; faintly tanned, but nothing too Eurotrash, with pink toenails and not a centimetre of anything wobbling at all.
‘I thought we could all have a swim. Did you bring a swimsuit? I can lend you something if you like.’
Maxine looks at me and we share a smile, because the chances of my fitting into any of her swimsuits are non-existent unless I can have some fairly major haunch-reducing surgery in the next three minutes. But it’s very kind of her to offer.
‘Thanks, but I’ve got mine with me.’ I’m not really looking forward to revealing my mottled bits to someone with world-famous legs, but never mind.
She smiles at the boys. ‘Would you like a drink or anything?’
Archie puts his hand up, which makes her laugh.
‘Coke. Please. Thank you. Very much. Very very much.’
Grace and Maxine both smile.
‘We’re only meant to have Coke at the weekends actually.’
Jack can’t resist the opportunity to have an Older Brother Moment, even if it means he might lose out on a Coke. Everyone looks at me for a verdict.
‘I think it’ll be fine, Jack, just this once.’
‘So that’s two Cokes, then. With straws?’
Archie claps his hands.
‘Yes, please. Thank you very much.’
I think I may have overdone it on the Be Very Polite thing.
Maxine goes into the kitchen while we walk down the corridor to the pool room, and the boys become temporarily speechless when they see the blue and green lights shining under the water; there’s music playing, and the glass walls are shut so it’s lovely and warm. Grace leads us into the most stylish changing room I’ve ever seen, with heated mosaic tiles, and a huge walk-in shower with a wooden grooved floor and a collection of lotions and shampoos, none of which are from Boots, or Molton Brown come to that; it’s all Jo Malone and Burt’s Bees, and all the towels are warm. I wonder how long it would take for anyone to notice if I just moved in here for a few days’ rest.
Grace dumps her kaftan on a chair and goes out to the pool.
‘It’s lovely in here, isn’t it, Mum?’
Jack’s sitting on a white leather armchair in his Spiderman pants, swinging his legs.
‘Yes, love. Come and put these on. And give me your things and I’ll hang them up.’
Archie’s armbands prove particularly tricky, since they seem to have welded themselves to the plastic coating on his anorak, and rude noises are produced whenever we try to pull them off, which go down extremely well.
‘Do it again, Mum, do it again. Look, they’ve got a toilet to wash your bottom in, like in our hotel in Devon.’
‘It’s a bidet, Archie.’
‘Yes, and Daddy said it was for your socks, but he was joking, wasn’t he, Mum?’
‘Yes, sweetheart.’
‘Daddy would like it here, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes, Jack.’
There’s a silence and I know I ought to say something, only I’m not sure what.
‘We had a lovely time in Devon with Daddy, didn’t we?’
They both nod.
‘Do you remember when he fell over in the sea?’
He was trying to learn to surf, but soon gave it up when he realised just how many times surfers get smacked in the face by their own surfboards. But he spent hours playing in the waves with the boys, which they loved.
Jack’s smiling.
‘Yes, and I was the champion. Dad said I was.’
‘Yes, you were. You were the champion six-year-old, and Archie was the champion four-year-old.’
Archie finally gets his last armband off. ‘Yes, and I’m nearly ready for swimming now, Mum, so hurry up.’
‘Let’s take your coat off first.’
Grace breaks off from doing a series of very impressive laps and swims over to join us as we get in. The shallow end’s just up to Archie’s shoulders, so he’s quite happy bobbing about, and the water’s lovely and warm, so Jack isn’t shivering like he usually does.
‘This is fabulous, Grace.’
She looks at Archie’s armbands.
‘I’ll have to get some of those.’
‘They do little inflatable seats for babies, until they’re big enough for armbands. Archie loved his.’
She smiles, and Archie looks worried.
‘Yes, but I don’t even need my armbands now, and I can go on my back too. Look.’
He hurls himself into a bit of backstroke and splashes us all.
‘That’s very good, Archie, but go on your front now, please.’
Jack demonstrates how far he can swim with his face in the water, and comes up spluttering.
‘It’s called front crawling.’
Grace applauds, and the boys start having mini-races while she does more laps, she doesn’t seem to get even the tiniest bit out of breath, which is mystifying since I’m getting out of breath just watching her
.
Archie manages a whole width without standing up, which is a new personal best, so he’s very pleased with himself, and then he clings on to the strap of my swimsuit and demands a piggyback swim like we used to do when he was little.
‘You’re too big now, darling. I’ll go under.’
Actually I used to go under fairly frequently when he was little too, since he was a pretty hefty toddler.
‘I’ve got my armbands on, so it won’t matter.’
‘Yes, but it would matter to me, because I’d be the one under the water.’
He giggles.
‘All right, bucking broncos, then, like Daddy used to do?’
Bugger. I was hoping he might have forgotten about the bronco thing, but he’s said the D-word so I feel honour bound to give it a go. He sits on my back with his arms round my shoulders and I stagger along in a half-crouch and then suddenly rise from the water and tip him backwards. Jack wants a go too, and what feels like an eternity later I’ve bucked them both off so many times I think I might have dislocated my right shoulder. Grace has been swimming round us, applauding occasionally.
‘Can Grace do bucking broncos?’
‘No, she can’t, Archie, definitely not. And this is the last one, all right?’
‘Okay. But when she has her baby out she can do it, can’t she?’
Grace laughs. ‘I think I might get Bruno to do any bucking that’s required.’
Archie scans the pool. ‘Who’s Bruno?’
‘He helps me.’
‘With swimming?’
‘Sometimes.’
He nods.
‘We have Mrs Collins, and she blows her whistle if you’re being silly and you have to get out and sit on the seat by the door. And when we go on the coach we sing songs, but only in our quiet voices because if you shout the driver might crash.’
Maxine comes in with a tray of drinks. ‘There’s a pot of decaff tea for you both, and Sam’s done some fruit for the kids, to make up for the you-know-what. We’ve got some toys somewhere, for the pool. Hang on a minute and I’ll find them.’
She goes into the cupboard by the door and emerges with a huge net bag full of plastic hoops and balls. ‘Any good?’
‘Brilliant.’
She unzips the bag and I start them off in a game of throw-the-ball-into-the-floating-hoop-without-trying-to-drown-your-brother, while Grace gets changed, and then I nip into the changing room and get dressed, with the door open so I can still hear them, before I join Grace on a lounger; she’s changed into a chocolate-brown velvety tracksuit, which I instantly long for, if they do them in giant-bottom size as well as film-star petite.
‘They’re sweet, your boys.’
‘Thanks. They’re even nicer when they’re asleep. You’ll notice that with yours. When they’re asleep they’re all completely adorable.’
She smiles and passes me her floral knitting bag, which is something else I’m longing for, but I think I saw something like it in a magazine a while ago, and it was nearly £600. So perhaps not.
She passes me a tiny cardigan in dark plum cotton.
‘You’re getting really good, you know. This is perfect.’
She looks very pleased.
‘I’ll wash it and sew it up for you as soon as I can, and I’ve brought a new book for you to look through, with some great blankets, cot-size this time, rather than teeny.’
I pass her the book, and pour us both a cup of tea.
‘I got it at the knitting show last week.’
‘The one you were telling me about, at Alexandra Palace, right?’
‘Yes. I’d forgotten what a big place it is. There were hundreds of stalls, and crowds of people.’
And it took me hours to get there, stuck on depressing dual carriageways in north London going in the wrong direction until I finally found the right road.
‘Did you buy much?’
‘A few books, and I’m sending off for prices on some lovely Scottish tweed and some Italian silk. There were some exhibitions by fashion students that were interesting; lots of knitted skirts with hoops, and dresses with three sleeves in grey silk, that kind of thing. And some Japanese women with sculptural things, like fishing nets, only in beautiful colours. Amazing.’
‘I like this one.’
She’s looking at a pretty cot blanket with baby animals in each square, mainly rabbits, ducks and what I think are meant to be elephants.
‘But not in these sickly colours.’
‘I’ll bring some better colours for you to look at. I can drop them off with Maxine if you’re busy, and she can let me know later. It might be nice in greens. I’ve got a lovely new apple green in, and a pale peppermint, which would work, or shades of browns and cream. Café-au-lait and caramel, that kind of thing.’
‘Great. Show me both.’
I pour us both some more tea. ‘How was Paris?’
‘Fine, boring, the usual.’
‘I’ve never actually been. Is it beautiful?’
‘You’ve never been to Paris?’
She looks at me like I’ve just said I’ve never been to a restaurant.
‘Nick and I talked about going once, but then I had Jack and we didn’t get round to it.’
She looks at the boys, who are busy rearranging the hoops, with Archie wearing one round his neck.
‘Archie, take that off, that could be dangerous, love.’
He ignores me, but Jack takes it off and smiles at us.
Grace puts the pattern book down.
‘Was he a good dad?’
‘He was lovely with them when he was around, but he was away a lot so we didn’t always see him that much.’
She gives me a thoughtful look.
‘You were a sort of semi-single parent, then?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Without the perks.’
‘Are there perks, then? Great, I love perks. Are there goodie bags?’
‘Not unless you count your Bounty pack, no.’
‘Your what?’
‘They give you a free carrier bag full of stuff in hospital, samples and things.’
‘I’ll be at the Portland, so they’ll probably charge me £50 for it.’
‘They’re not that exciting, actually. I’d pass, if I were you.’
She smiles. ‘What are the other perks, then?’
‘Things like being able to stick to a proper bedtime routine and rules about sweets without him making you look like the wicked witch, overruling you whenever he feels like it. Not having to maintain the myth of how marvellous Daddy is, even when he’s late home again and you’re completely knackered, that kind of thing.’
‘So basically it’s crap?’
‘Yes.’
‘But having a dad around doesn’t help that much either?’
‘No, not really. It’s still mainly the mums who do all the boring stuff: you just go to any dentist during half-term and you’ll see. It’s pretty much a one-woman mission for most people, I think.’
‘And no free gifts.’
‘Not really, no.’
She laughs. ‘I think she got it wrong, you know, that Simone de Beauvoir. We’re not the Second Sex at all, we’re the bloody First. Everything would grind to a halt without women. I’ve been reading the research notes Max did for me, and that Jean-Paul Sartre sounds like a right wanker. She should have been much tougher with him, like that one who sat knitting by the guillotine. Madame de something.’
‘Madame Defarges?’
‘Yes – get your knitting out and don’t let the bastards grind you down. And she wore Chanel, you know.’
‘Who, Madame Defarges?’
‘No, Simone de Beauvoir. So the clothes will be great, if I do it. If I ever get back to a normal size again. Have you read any of her books?’
‘Maybe, at university. I can’t really remember. I’ve got quite a few blanks about what I read years ago. I think it’s a leftover from being pregnant. Sorry, I used to hate that, how people always tell you thi
ngs like that when you’re pregnant. It’s like you become public property.’
‘I’ve been public property for quite a while, if you believe the papers.’
‘Yes, but people don’t come up to you and touch your tummy, do they? They were always doing that to me, on the Tube, and I hated it.’
She laughs.
‘Not unless they want to get up close and personal with Bruno they don’t.’
‘Anyway, there’s some new research on how pregnancy actually improves your memory. I was reading about it at the weekend, I meant to bring it to show you. It increases something. They’ve done scans on how women’s brains are different to men’s, and it gets more pronounced after pregnancy. So we’re not supposed to blame men if they can’t multitask. Although they’re very good at map reading, apparently.’
‘And quite good at multi-tasking when it’s things they want to do, like shagging people behind your back.’
‘True.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘Who?’
‘The woman your husband … Look, say if you don’t want to talk about this, won’t you?’
‘It’s fine. No, I never met her.’
‘Jimmy was always surrounded by women. They used to line up along the corridor in hotels, like a sort of buffet. Pick and mix, they used to call it.’
‘How horrible.’
‘I quite liked it at first. I could walk in and nobody would take any notice, because they were all completely focused on the Band. It was relaxing in a way, although it used to drive Max crazy.’
‘Yes, I can imagine that.’
‘But I knew he’d fuck it up, sooner or later. I was getting bored with him or I’d have sorted it out. You can always sort them out, if you really want to.’
‘It probably helps if you look like you do.’
She laughs. ‘Maybe, but you know what I mean: you’re only a victim if you want to be – my mum taught me that. It’s hard sometimes, but that’s the way it is; you just have to refuse to let it get to you. It’s really bad karma if you let things diminish you.’
